In the Duchy of Tradgardland preparations are underway to celebrate Midsommer...
The pavilions are raised against the blue of heaven and a canvas town has emerged upon the heath.
This year Karl Frederick directs all from the bed upon which he is lain. He is still recovering from the wound incurred upon the duelling ground.
In between organising and directing the myriad servants , each laden for the coming feast, he frets about what will become of relations between Tradgardland and Skogsmork. He settles upon the thought that this is Midsommer - what possibly could go wrong?